


Hiraeth

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Mention of Het Sex, Original Character Death(s), Pining Sherlock, Post Reichenbach, Pre Season 3, Sherlock - Freeform, So much angst, beatings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:07:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1417914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pieces of Sherlock's tale explaining some of his time during those missing two years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hiraeth

**Author's Note:**

> Hiraeth (n.) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

He grimaced in mistaken realization. Six months of the tiresome reaction. _Dull. Tedious._ Sense memory was his real enemy, not the man who so erroneously stalked behind him. The first time Sherlock had smelt the sharp scent of gun metal, oil and powder, his heart had leapt in his chest, a warm, liquid pulse made him aware of his circulatory system as it spread through him and he had smiled, before reality coalesced and he realized that John was a thousand miles away, not in his usual place at his side. He couldn't abide the smell or taste of Asian cuisine anymore either, more's the pity. Every subsequent time he came in contact with those painful reminders it became a little easier to swallow but he never could get rid of that first initial leap in blood pressure.

He turned and easily incapacitated the mobster who had followed him into the house.

He said aloud to no one, "Why can't I rid myself of this?"

 

                                                                                                                 -*-

 

Sherlock let up on the Turks neck, enough for the man to sputter out an answer.

  
"I don't know nothing," the man growled.

  
"Hmm, curious. Did you mean to use a double negative because you _do_ know something or is your English as rudimentary as your knowledge of your boss's operation?"

  
The Turk stopped struggling. "What?" He asked, confused.

  
Sherlock sighed before twisting hard, dispatching the low level thug quickly and efficiently. "Waste of my time." He kicked the body toward the deep, shadowy recess from where he had sprung and moved on down the hall.

  
_You all right?_

  
"Course I'm all right."

  
_You have just killed a man._

  
"Yes, well, he wasn't a very nice man."

 

                                                                                                                -*-

 

  
Walls around the entire perimeter, hidden cameras along each, the look of an abandoned military base but in reality very much active underneath the surface. Pages of intel and not one useful bit on how to enter. He looked up just in time to see his contact, Jergens, enter the canteen with an ex military man of medium height and build, sandy brown hair under his cap and dark, undetermined eye color. Despite the fact that he looked nothing like John, Sherlock still dropped off the bar stool and took a involuntary step back. He didn't hear Jergens greeting. Jergens voice filtered in slowly, softly past the rush of blood in Sherlock's ears.

  
"...look like much but Atkins here is the only bastard who can get you in and out of Craw Field unnoticed." He chuckled but Sherlock didn't hear it.

  
"Unacceptable," he whispered.

  
"What?" Jergens exclaimed. "Why?"

  
"I..." He didn't have a good enough explanation. He glanced at Jergens offended face and back to Atkins, who waited patiently for his decision. His eyes were mud brown and Sherlock needed access to Craw Field. He swallowed his growing nausea and nodded his acquiescence to Jergens.

  
"All right," he drawled. "Atkins, this charming fellow is Mr. Watson. Watson, Morgan Atkins."

  
Sherlock held out his hand, ignoring the slight kick of his heart as he felt Atkins calloused trigger finger against his skin. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

 

                                                                                                                 -*-

 

"Tell me, how does one become a poison specialist?"

  
"Very carefully," he answered in his best disarming baritone. It worked. The middle aged woman, a Mrs. Heller, tittered as she twisted a greying curl around a dry, secretary finger.

  
"You simply must expound, Mr. Brooks," she purred and placed a dry hand to his sleeve. He could hear as the tiny cracks in her skin snagged against the silk of his shirt.

  
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, molded his face into his approximation of charmed interest. "Must I?"

  
"Oh, yes." She tugged on his sleeve and he followed her.

  
Outside he seemed to follow willingly but inside he gave a dramatic sigh. He wished desperately that he could go back to the days of his childlike innocence. Mycroft was only half right about his assumed virginity. There was a full decade that Mycroft had missed whilst he had been busy building his empire. His cameras had missed much and Sherlock had used his University years to full advantage. Sexual experimentation had yielded few useful results, however, so he had deleted the entire affair. All but the needed anatomy knowledge and any sexual motives possible for murder. Sex was messy and time consuming. _Especially with women,_ he thought as he glared at the back of Mrs. Heller's head. This was why he preferred men. Women required participation. They expected seduction, foreplay, feats of strength, god help him, talking. _Gag._ With men he just had to lay back, or forward, depending, and receive. Be the receptacle, as it were. He could tune out completely and proceed working the case. Mrs. Heller was enraptured by his voice, so, yes, he would have to stay conscious for this bit. Whisper a few naughty nothings into her ear and perhaps he could finish her quickly and get on with the plan. She was a means to an end, nothing more. Stealthily stealing her away from Moriarty's go to hit man in Sweden would easily bring the man out of the wood work, all he had to do was seduce her into choosing him to kill her husband.

She pushed him down onto the hotel bed. He ignored her ministrations as he mentally prepared himself for the proceedings.

A weathered hand pushing a warm mug of tea into his. A few, quick tugs on his curls as leaves were plucked from his head. Exasperated sighs and inappropriate chuckles. Knobby wool jumpers. 

He came back just enough to give an appropriate groan as Mrs. Heller mounted him.

Men were easier.

 

                                                                                                                 -*-

 

His arms had long since gone numb but his ribs were very aware of the beating he'd taken. He held the groans in as long as he could but there was nothing for it now. The air escaped unbidden from his chest with every punch. He had nothing to think about but the pain until the faint scent of Clive Christian 1872 made its way past the smell of blood and soiled concrete.

He waited patiently as Mycroft sat and observed the next round of beatings. He promised himself that he would get his brother back for his apathy. It wasn't enough that he came for him, not enough that he had worn his favourite cologne to comfort him, and he had, Clive Christian had no place in a Serbian Prison, he could have intervened as soon as he arrived but instead he had settled in to watch the show. The git. Sherlock took it upon himself to end the charade by deducing the jailers domestic situation. The man ran off, leaving the two Holmes brothers alone together for the first time in two years. He continued the ridiculous chicanery for a moment, explained the reason for his appearance, but then Mycroft said six words, six seemingly innocent words, and everything was forgotten.

  
"Back to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes."

  
Baker Street.                               Home.                                 _John._

**Author's Note:**

> Ouch. What the hell is wrong with me? Jeez. Sorry about this. I don't know what came over me. Leave me comments detailing the depth of how much I deserve to jump off the roof of a certain London Hospital and you shall receive my sincerest apologies. As always, come find me on Tumblr at [artisanbloodbank](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)


End file.
